Shared Tears
by Remingtonkeys
Summary: SPOILER WARNING: set after events of Series 3 Ep5, with a focus on the fragile emotional states of Lord and Lady Grantham and the state of their marriage.


"Excuse me, Mr. Crawley," said Carson as Matthew entered the empty dining room for breakfast.

"Good morning, Carson. What can I do for you?"

Carson's knitted brows radiated discomfort. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I'm a bit concerned for his lordship. He hadn't rung for Thomas, and when he went up to awaken him for breakfast, he found the room empty and his bed not slept in."

Matthew couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope at the thought of Robert's empty bed. Perhaps the pall over Downton was beginning to lift. "Well, that's not entirely unusual, is it? Maybe…"

Carson stiffened and shook his head, not wanting to violate Lord Grantham's privacy by discussing his sleeping arrangements. "Miss O'Brien says her ladyship is breakfasting alone."

So the deep freeze was still on. It was no wonder then that Robert might seek refuge outside the house, or perhaps a friendly face, and there were so few of them for him lately. "Well he must be out and about the estate someplace. He likes to walk with Isis, or maybe he's gone to see the Dowager Countess."

Carson bristled. "It is a bit early for her, but I took the liberty of calling over there. Her maid said that no one has seen his lordship. Isis is still in the house and a few of the footmen have had a quick look about the grounds here with no sign of him."

Matthew didn't like the position in which he found himself. Carson was looking to him for some sort of a decision, but he wasn't sure a decision needed to be made. "I'm sure he'll turn up. It isn't like Lord Grantham to miss breakfast. I will speak to Lady Mary and see if perhaps she has an idea of where her father might have gone."

Carson hovered, clearly not satisfied.

"Yes?" Matthew narrowed his eyes.

"There is something else. It's probably nothing—"

"Out with it, Carson."

"I hate to violate the privilege of a valet or be seen to engage in gossip—"

"Carson, just tell me."

"Thomas found Lord Grantham's absence unusual, but in preparing his lordship's clothes for the morning, he was puzzled by a detail in the dressing room. He called my attention to a small drawer in his lordship's wardrobe that was always kept locked. Today, it was unlocked and ajar. He didn't know what the drawer contained, but it is empty."

Matthew eyed the butler. "Am I to assume you know what was in the drawer?"

"I'm afraid I do," said Carson. "For years the drawer has held a small pearl handled pistol that once belonged to the previous earl. His lordship has kept the drawer locked ever since the girls were children. He didn't want them to find it when they were playing. Lady Mary was quite mischievous."

"And quite snoopy?" He smiled, but Carson's manner indicated a lack of humor on the subject. Matthew let it sink in, suddenly feeling the weight of his future earldom on his shoulders. Everyone in the house was aware of what had transpired over the past weeks. Sybil's death had sent ripples across the family fabric, the worst of which were still reverberating in the fractured relationship between the Lord and Lady of the house. Both parties were suffering, but Cora had rejected every attempt Robert had made to reach her. While Robert had taken to wandering aimlessly and alone in the big house, the family and staff feared the marriage had been irreparably damaged. Meals were an uncomfortable affair, painful for everyone, and the usually inseparable couple had taken to nesting in separate rooms day and night.

After a scan of her father's usual haunts in the rambling home and grounds, Mary had no idea where he might be. A casual inquiry of her mother received only a curt 'no' in response to whether she knew where Robert was. Thomas had noted only the one drawer disturbed in Robert's dressing room, and only his overcoat and hat missing.

A survey of the staff had finally uncovered a clue. The chauffer had reluctantly confessed that the earl had awakened him in the middle of the night and had insisted he be driven to the train station.

"Lord Grantham carried nothing," recounted the driver, "and said nothing about where he was going."

"What about when he was expected to return?" asked Matthew.

"I asked that," said the chauffer. "In case he needed to be picked up at the station. He said he wasn't planning a return."

Matthew exchanged a look with Mary, whose concern was already bordering on panic.

Carson returned, having had a check of his office. "My lady, the key to the London house is missing."

"That's good," said Matthew. "Perhaps he just wanted to get away from here for a while."

Mary whirled on him. "Get away? With a pistol and no clothes or servants? Do you think he is on holiday?" She took a deep breath and went to the house phone and dialed the London house number. After an impatient minute, she slammed the phone down. "You must go find him and bring him back. Take Tom if he will agree to join you. The nurse will care for the baby and I will stay with Mama and Edith so not to worry them." She wondered if her mother had any inclination to worry about her father left in her.

"Mary," protested Matthew, "I'm sure we're making too much of this. You're father's had a rough month. We all have. He probably just needed to breathe, a change of scenery—" He stopped when he saw his wife's face. He would not win this one.

"All right," he surrendered. "I'll ask Tom to come along. We'll go talk to him." Matthew nodded. "Carson, it would probably be best if you don't speak of this, to Lady Grantham or to anyone downstairs."

"I hardly think that request necessary." Carson looked insulted. His discretion was above reproach, especially in service to Robert. He tried to find a way to voice his opinion that Mr. Branson would hardly be a suitable traveling companion in this instance. Surely, his lordship would want a friendlier face than the Irishman's. "Would you like me to accompany you, Mr. Crawley?"

"No, thank you, Carson," Matthew said. "I'm sure Lord Grantham is fine. I don't want to embarrass him any more than is necessary."

Matthew Crawley and Tom Branson stood on the doorstep. They had knocked and rang with no reply from inside.

"Maybe he's not here after all," said Tom, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. "He could be anywhere. He could be in any pub in the city. I can't say I'd blame him for that."

"Robert isn't really the pub type."

Matthew tried the door, and finding it unlocked, they entered, calling for Robert.

They heard nothing, but found Robert sitting stoically in an armchair in the drawing room, a glass in his hand. He looked up at his two sons-in-law, but made no other overture toward them.

"Sorry," said Matthew. "We let ourselves in. You didn't answer the door."

The earl shrugged. "It didn't occur to me," mumbled Robert. "I don't believe I have ever answered a door in my life." He stood and refilled his glass, and from the look of him, not for the first time. "Don't think me rude, but why are you here?"

"Funny," said Matthew. "I was going to ask you the same thing. You didn't tell anybody you were leaving Downton, or where you were going. We had to bully the chauffer to admit he had driven you to the train station in the middle of the night."

"I didn't think anyone would notice," said Robert. "I've been a bit of an invisible man lately." He held up the liquor bottle. "Drink?"

Matthew and Tom shook their heads. "Bit early in the day for whisky, isn't it?" said Matthew.

"It's only early if you've been to bed," said Robert. "Sorry I can't offer you much else, there's no one on duty here and I don't know where anything is."

Matthew searched the room with his eyes, looking for the missing pistol. "Which again begs the question, why are you here?"

"I rather like it here," said Robert. "I walk the streets of London and nobody knows who I am, or what I've done. I was born into the Downton fishbowl, and have lived every day of my life in the public eye-in the village, even in my own home. The privacy here is nice. Or it was, until you intruded." He gave a snort of self-contempt. "Once, I was concerned that everyone would know I was the earl that had squandered the family fortune, now they will know that I have not only gambled at much higher stakes and lost, but that the heartless Lord Grantham is responsible for the death of his own daughter." He took a draw on his whisky.

"Don't do that to yourself. We all heard that there were no guarantees with either option," said Matthew, with an awkward glance at his brother-in-law. "Sybil may have died anyway, even Doctor Clarkson said so."

Tom wandered away. His attention was drawn to the small pearl handled revolver that lay near the whisky bottle on the table nearby. "This is nice." He picked it up and showed it to Matthew. At least they had found it.

"It was my father's," said Robert. "My mother gave it to me when he died."

"May I ask why you've brought it here?" said Matthew with a forced chuckle. "I mean what use is it in London? Unless you're planning to rob a bank?"

Robert shrugged. "I took it because unlike most everything else in Downton Abbey, I feel it belongs to me. I couldn't take Isis on the train." He took the pistol from Tom and turned it over admiringly as he looked at his sons-in-law watching him handle the weapon, and the dawn of understanding broke. "Oh, I see. You came to save me from myself. Or did you come to gloat over my lifeless carcass?" He set the gun back down and refilled his whisky glass.

Matthew frowned. "Don't be ridiculous. We came out of concern."

"You came because you were sent," corrected Lord Grantham, "by Mary, most likely. Well, now that you're here in London, you can take in the show and report back. 'The bastard is broken and alone, and all is right with the world.'" He raised his glass in a salute and then drained it.

"What are you talking about?" Matthew's voice was gentle. "No one wants to see you-"

"Come now, my sons," said Robert sharply, obviously feeling the effects of hard liquor on an empty stomach. "Isn't this what you've wanted? Both of you? To see men like me brought to our knees?"

"Robert, don't—"

"It's all right. I suppose I have brought it on myself. I have failed. In every aspect of my life. I failed my mother thirty years ago when I let my father bully me into marrying an American heiress for her money. I failed her again by committing the unforgivable sin of falling in love with my new wife. I then failed my father and posterity by being unable to produce an heir with her. I failed the estate I was born to manage by gambling away Cora's fortune—the very money that my crafty father arranged to save us, and now I stand on the brink of having control of Downton taken from me like a toy in a playground." He sat down and rubbed his eyes, knowing the worst of it was yet to come. "And I know I have failed Edith… and Cora…" His voice broke and he struggled for control. "And my Sybil, my daughter." He choked back a sob, refusing to cry in front of these young men. "I have failed as a son, as master of the estate, as husband, father and grandfather. And for that I am sorry. But, I want you both to know that I have never made a decision in my life that I didn't think was in the best interest of this family."

"Of course," said Matthew. "We know that."

"And so do they," added Tom.

Robert looked at him in surprise.

"It's true that we have rarely found ourselves in agreement, but I do believe you've always done what you thought right. We have that in common, you and me. I only wanted the best for Sybil and our baby, and so did you. We both knew that. You are an honorable man who speaks his mind, and I like to think I am as well. I may not like what you say, but I do respect it." He reached out for Robert's arm to help him out of the chair. "Now come on, let's get you back—""

"No." Robert pulled away. He stood on his own and pulled himself up straight, trying to make his final stand with dignity. "I'm not going back. There is nothing, and no one, there for me anymore. If I am to live out my life isolated, useless and alone, I refuse to do it in that house… surrounded by the people I love and memories of a life long gone. I'd be nothing but a great pretender, with daily reminders of my hollow marriage, my hollow title and my hollow life. No. You'll take Downton, Matthew. Have it all. Except the title, of course, though I'd gladly hand that over if I could. I doubt it means anything to you anyway, but if we're both lucky it won't be long to wait before you and Mary are Earl and Countess."

"Robert, please," pleaded Matthew. "Just come back with us. We can talk about it there. I don't want Downton now. I certainly don't want it this way, and neither does Mary."

"Run it. Sell it. Burn it to the ground," Robert pointed at Tom. "He can show you how. And you can both laugh while it smolders, satisfied to be done with me and this way of life you seem to detest so much." He gave an ironic laugh. "You can't live with it, and I don't know how to live any other way.

"Whatever life you choose, I leave you a houseful of Crawley women. God help you. I bid you to take better care of them than I have." He took another drink. "And be patient with Carson. Change isn't easy for him. He's a dinosaur too, I'm afraid. No matter. We'll all be extinct soon enough, though I suspect not soon enough to suit the two of you. I'd ask Carson here, but he belongs at Downton and Mary has lost enough already. She'll need him as you both take over." His eyes glistened again. "Maybe he can be the father I couldn't."

"Mary adores Carson," said Matthew, stepping closer to Robert, "but you are her father. And she is very much her father's daughter. You could never deny her. She's too much like you. She wants you home and in your place at the head of the table where you belong for as long as possible. And, for that matter, so do I. Mary has overcome adversity of her own; you know that. Where do you think she learnt how? Her stubborn streak and resilience and strength come from you, as do Sybil and Edith's desire to be useful and help others. You raised Mary to run Downton, and she will—but at the proper time. That time has not come yet. You have work to do, for the estate and for the family. They both need you. I need you. I may have a sense of managing ledgers and accounts, but you know the estate and its people better than anyone. I've never known you to be a man that shirks responsibility. In fact, you are the one who has taught me to accept mine. You told me I could not refuse my title or my obligations, and I say in return that you cannot quit now either. You are needed at home."

"Needed?" He again sat heavily in the armchair and closed his eyes. "At least there is some justice in this. Young Tom has lost his wife, and I have lost mine. The difference is that Lady Grantham believes herself well rid of her spouse."

"Lady Grantham is grieving the loss of her daughter, as you are. She doesn't _think_ she needs you right now, but everyone knows she will, and soon. Once this bubble bursts, you must be there for her to get her through whatever comes next."

"Matthew is right."

Again Robert looked up at Tom's words.

"Sybil is gone," he continued, "and there is nothing you nor I can do to change what's happened. But you've a wife and two more daughters…and now a baby granddaughter, and who knows what on the way in future. And be assured of this, Downton Abbey won't get properly back on its feet unless you do." He searched Robert's eyes for a reaction. Seeing none, he shot a look at Matthew, apologizing in advance, and chose a different tact. He raised his voice. "My wife is dead. Yours is living. She and your living daughters need you whether they think they do or not. So the great Lord Grantham is not perfect after all. So what? Who among us is? Do you think this is what Sybil would've wanted for you? Stop feeling so bloody sorry for yourself and go on home to your family and be the man they need you to be."

For a moment, the great Lord Grantham appeared behind Robert's eyes. Tom braced himself, hoping for an indignant tirade aimed at the impertinent Irish rebel, but the flash faded as quickly as it had come. Tom had overestimated Lord Grantham's irascibility, or at least the source of it. As often happened, Robert Crawley did not expend energy defending himself against a personal attack. Thinking back on the last month in the Crawley home, it all made sense. Cora, and even Tom himself, had cold-shouldered the man, with her ladyship going so far as to publicly place the blame for Sybil's death right at her husband's feet. Mary vehemently defended her father's intentions, yet Robert would make no response to any of it. His outbursts of temper, Tom realized, were reserved in defense of his family or his estate and he was reminded of the surprising moment in the family dining room when his father-in-law had risen angrily in his defense against the insults of the pompous Larry Grey, exhibiting a fiery protective spirit he would not even afford himself in his darkest moment.

Instead, from his seat, the lord simply frowned, ever so slightly, looking older than he ever had, and his words were soft and nonthreatening. "Get out. Leave me." He lay back and closed his eyes again. "I'm very tired."

"You left him?" Mary's distraught voice echoed through her father's library. "Oh, Matthew! How could you?"

Tom and Matthew stood side by side, with Matthew left defending their decision to come back without the lord in tow. "We had our say," said Matthew. "He's a grown man, Mary. We could hardly drag him back here bodily."

"So you've left him alone and drunk and with a loaded gun at his side? I'm surprised you didn't aim it for him as well. I should have let Carson go, or gone myself."

"That's not fair," said Matthew. "Yes, he is upset and hurt and heartbroken, but he at least is in his right mind. It's your mother I am worried about. We were all there the night Sybil gave birth, and nobody really knew for sure the right thing to do. Even the doctors didn't agree. Yes, he supported what turned out to be the wrong side, but to blame your father to this extent…"

"Is unreasonable and cruel," Mary finished. "Yes, I agree. He would never have hurt Sybil intentionally. We are all grieving, but I hate the fact that Mama has shut him out like this. My father is a reserved man, but he is a very sensitive one. Oh, he blusters and rages like an overprotective lion, but he is a kind and gentle man at heart. Surely, even you can see that, Tom."

Tom nodded in reluctant agreement.

"He doesn't like to show weakness to us," continued Mary, "or to anyone, not even Granny, but I know the one place he was always safe to express his emotions was with my mother." Mary's eyes filled with tears, feeling her father's pain. "He loves her, Matthew. I know he does, and in a way men of his generation don't allow themselves to love. He is as devastated as the rest of us, more so after what's happened. Now Mama has us and Tom and baby Sybil. I have you, and we all have each other to lean on, even the staff. All except Papa. Without Mama, he has no one, and hasn't from the moment we lost Sybil. He's been completely alone in his grief and his guilt, and I am so scared for him."

"So am I."

Mary, Matthew and Tom turned, startled by the soft voice behind them.

"Mama," said Mary, wiping her eyes. "How long have you been-"

"Long enough. Where is he?"

"London," said Matthew. "He's at your house there. He took no servants with him. He's quite alone."

"He is not in the best frame of mind, I'm afraid," said Mary. "And Matthew and Tom say he is also quite drunk."

Cora's mouth twitched. It wasn't so much a smile, but there was a hint of kindness there that had been absent for several weeks. "I'm quite used to handling your father in any condition."

Tom spoke up. If there was anyone he wanted to protect in this, it was Cora. "Lady Grantham, if you plan to go see him, I really do think it best if someone goes with you. There are no servants there. I mean, I'm sure he's fine, but as Mary said, he was very distraught, and with the matter of the pistol—"

"You're very kind, my dear," said Cora with an eerie calm, "but I have miscarried a son and watched my youngest daughter die before my eyes. I will deal with my husband in whatever condition I find him."

"What will you say to him?" asked Mary.

"I'm not sure," said Cora. "But I suppose it is time I said it."

He was asleep when she entered the darkened house. Not in their bedroom, it seemed he was honoring her desire for him to vacate any intimate location they had shared. It was odd to see the house so lifeless when they were so used to the servants preceding their arrival and making the home vibrant and welcoming. But then, so many things about she and Robert were lifeless lately. For a moment, she thought in the emptiness that he wasn't there, and just as a cold fear of something more foreboding crept into her consciousness, she heard the familiar sound of gentle snoring.

He was on the sofa in the drawing room. He hadn't bothered to remove the dust sheets that covered the furniture and he lay atop one, with the edge of it curled around him, offering little comfort or warmth. She noticed he was uncharacteristically without his jacket and tie, but with no one in the house, what did it matter?

His discarded clothes were scattered on the nearby armchair, and beside him on a small table his cufflinks and tie tack lay beside a near-empty bottle and glass. Knowing the staff kept the decanters filled, she knew he would regret his choice of a liquid breakfast when he awakened.

She realized this was the first time she had looked at him since that night in Sybil's room. Really looked at him. Even in sleep he appeared worn out, and his day's growth of unshaven whiskers showed more grey than dark. Cora tried to resist the welling feeling of sympathy for him; she wanted to stay angry and she wanted him to continue to suffer. But those feelings were aimed at the Earl of Grantham, the stubborn British aristocrat who had dismissed their family physician's advice in favor of a fellow blue-blood, with irreversibly tragic results.

Now, facing a slightly disheveled middle aged man in his shirtsleeves, laying alone in a cold, empty house, she saw only Robert, her husband, a man with whom she had shared her life and her bed for three decades, and who stood beside her as they witnessed their youngest daughter's death.

She caught sight of the pistol on the side table. She remembered to thank god that he was only drunk. She shuddered at the possibilities that came with a tortured man, alcohol and a gun. And if she had found that Robert had ended his life on this day in this place, she would have understood, and she herself would be as tormented and wracked with guilt as he was, as he would be for his remaining days. She carefully picked up the weapon. She hadn't seen it since Violet had presented it to Robert after her own husband's death many years ago. She imagined Robert holding it. It was such an incongruous and jarring combination, his mild manner and the cold destructive steel of a gun. Cora couldn't help but wonder what had moved him to bring it with him when he left Downton, if not to—

"Don't shoot."

Robert's husky voice in the silence startled her so that she nearly dropped the pistol. Still loosely holding the weapon, she quickly turned to face him.

"On second thought," he groaned, "Please do. You'd be doing me a favor. Lord knows I didn't have the stomach for it myself." He sat up and rubbed his aching neck.

She cringed, but still couldn't bring herself to speak to him. They had barely exchanged a word since Sybil had passed, and though she still didn't want to discuss it with him now, it seemed wrong to talk about anything else. She suddenly couldn't recall why she had come.

Without a word, she left the room, leaving Robert in the now too familiar position of watching her walk away from him. This time, however, she returned, carrying a glass of water. She handed it to him and sat across from the sofa on the arm of the chair on which he had tossed his jacket.

He sipped at the water and set it down, not really ready to put anything else in his churning stomach. "Thank you."

"It's only water," said Cora.

"I meant thank you for coming," said Robert. "Unless, of course, you really did come to shoot me." He forced a small smile, but winced at the effort.

Cora looked away from him, still unwilling to close the distance between them. "Don't joke, Robert."

He sighed. Would he never be able to reach her again? Had she followed just to torment him? He had left. Wasn't that enough? "You needn't have come. Don't worry, I won't cause further pain and embarrassment to our family by committing suicide. I do refuse to make a mockery of our marriage by living separately in our home, but I won't put you out when I am the one at fault. You stay, and you and Mary and Matthew can run Downton together until their time officially comes. No one will judge you in light of what's happened. Let Tom and the child stay with you. I will remain here, out of the way of all of you, at least for the time being. Matthew can see to my duties around the estate and the village. Of course, if you desire a more formal separation, Murray can handle it, though it would mean you would be displaced. You could come here, or have one of the other houses should you choose to remain in Britain. The money is complicated now, but I am sure Matthew will agree to take care of you."

Cora stared at him. It would be easy to see him as cold and businesslike as he tended to the business of offering to end their marriage, but she knew him better. Robert was a thinker driven by duty, and even in their most emotional moments and difficult times he somehow managed to remain infuriatingly calm. He dealt with the loss of Patrick and James, and the resulting business with the entail with a detached reason, despite the implications for Mary. He welcomed Matthew and believed things would be for the best. Once he confessed his financial troubles to her, he prepared to leave his ancestral home, setting aside his shame and heartbreak. His few moments of uncontrolled emotion were usually protective and in response to perceived threats to his family, and those of late had mostly involved Sybil and Tom.

Sybil. Cora swallowed hard. Thinker. Duty. Protector. Sybil.

"Cora?"

The emptiness that had filled Cora suddenly returned, again pushing out any resurgent sympathy and regard for her husband. She nodded blankly. What was she agreeing to? A separation? He was leaving. Had left. She had driven him away. She told herself she didn't care, that it was for the best. If she were to help raise little Sybil, wouldn't it be best to do it without the oppressive presence of her grandfather in the house?

But he had been a loving father, hadn't he? Doting on each of his daughters, and they had adored him. And he had never made any of them feel less important to him because they weren't sons. Their sons. Cora's mind drifted to their unborn son, whose small life ended on her bathroom floor. Robert had been devastated, too. She had seen it in his eyes. His eyes always revealed him. He had cried with her, he had held her, he told her not to blame herself. He had told her he loved her. If he ever felt anything else—resentment or a desire to blame-over the loss of his long-awaited heir, he never let on. Thinker. Duty. Protector. But this was different, wasn't it? This was Sybil. Her daughter. Their daughter. His daughter.

"Cora?"

Wordlessly, she again rose from her seat. He expected it. She was forever leaving him lately. This, he believed, might be for the last time.

Instead, she slowly crossed the room and sat beside him on the sofa, near enough that their legs touched. She allowed her head to fall to his shoulder and closed her eyes, but he remained still. They sat awkwardly like that for several minutes, until Robert made a tentative move to gently wrap his arm around his wife's shoulder. When she didn't recoil, he leaned back and put his feet up on the coffee table in front of them. She slid just a bit further into his arms and let her hand come to rest gently on his chest.

She still had nothing to say. There was nothing, but in their silence a wall crumbled. The tears came now, for both of them. Shared tears for a shared loss.


End file.
